


Distraction

by colouredshadows



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:28:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colouredshadows/pseuds/colouredshadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has nightmares. Sherlock helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a couple of years ago now so apologies for any inaccuracies or just generally crappy writing.

John’s eyes jerked open. He shot bolt upright in bed, breaths coming in gasps, cold sweat pouring off him. Once his heartbeat had stopped pounding against his chest as though it was trying desperately to escape from where it was caged and had returned to normal John wearily lay back down. That was the 6th night in a row he’d woken in the middle of the night haunted by visions of his past. John sighed and clambered out of bed, there was no point trying to get back to sleep- he knew from experience that it was impossible. His whole body ached with fatigue but he knew he would inevitably spend the next 20 hours or so awake until he was forced to go to bed and perhaps catch a few hours of sleep, if he was lucky, before the nightmare struck again and the process was repeated. He could never seem to close his eyes properly again after the nightmare, after the nightmare nothing was quite the same. How many nights had he lain there waiting for the sun to rise so that he could get up and forget about the whole thing? But even in the brightness of daylight he could never quite erase it from his mind; it continued to lurk there like an unpleasant stain. It seemed like far too many. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a decent sleep, he could hardly remember life before the nightmare- a life in which he didn’t have to dread the inescapable setting of the sun. And to make matters worse, his body was definitely not being subtle about reminding him of that painful fact.

John wandered through the corridors of the flat like a sleep-walker, the floor cold beneath his bare feet, unsure of where he was going. John sub-consciously made his way to the kitchen, like he would normally do when he woke, even though it was several hours before he usually got up. Several hours before anyone in their right mind would even have opened their eyes yet. Once he arrived he realized that he had absolutely no clue as to why he had come here and his sleep-fogged mind could offer no solution as to what to do next either. It was very dark in the kitchen, even darker than the dim light of the corridors that his eyes had adjusted to. Familiar as he was with the layout of the flat John still had to fumble for the light-switch. He found it and gratefully flicked it down, bringing sudden illumination to the kitchen. The bright light was harsh on John’s newly awakened eyes and he had to blink several times before the dazzling white faded and the room swam back into focus. The first thing John registered when his vision adjusted was that he wasn’t alone.

“Nightmares again John?” Sherlock asked from where he was sprawled casually across the sofa, peering at him over the top of a battered paperback novel.  
“Jesus, you scared the life out of me Sherlock!” John complained, his words slurred slightly as if he were drunk. He still didn’t feel like he’d woken up yet, it was more like a continuation of a strange dream.  
“Don’t you ever sleep Sherlock?” John accused, wanting to wipe that smug kind of smile off Sherlock’s lips.  
“Not often,” he replied, “I usually have more important matters to attend to. I mean, why would you waste the night sleeping? It’s such a good time to think.”  
Well sleeping doesn’t sound like such a bad idea to me thought John, but he didn’t voice his grievances. Instead he asked, a little disbelievingly: “Don’t you get tired at all?”  
“No, not really. Only when I run out of interesting things to do.” Sherlock replied along with a small, almost cheeky, smile.  
Lucky bugger.  
“Well I’m knackered,” John said, stifling a yawn, “and would love to be able to sleep right now.”  
Sherlock watched John run a hand over his face and rub his sleep-leaden eyes, concerned for his friend’s health. He looked as if he could topple over at any minute.  
“Maybe I can help with that.” He said. “Come on.”

Sherlock led John back down the hallway to John’s room, holding the door open for him when they arrived. John followed Sherlock like a lost puppy, too tired to do anything else other than obey. Too tired to mention to Sherlock that he had tried everything he could think of to try and lull himself back to sleep.  
John sat down gratefully on the edge of his bed, afraid his legs would give out if he stood for much longer. Sherlock stood a few feet away and surveyed him critically, a doctor analysing his patient.

“Close your eyes John.” Sherlock commanded.  
John tried to protest, to tell him that every time he closed his eyes the images came flooding back: the piles of dead men, the always growing puddles of blood, another hopeless child watching with haunted eyes as their home and family ignite behind them. The screams, the cries, gunfire and the sound of exploding bombs tearing innocent people’s lives apart. How could John explain the terrors of war to someone who had never experienced it?  
But the war wasn’t here, it was far away- a distant yet all too real memory, and John trusted Sherlock like he’d never trusted anyone before.  
He closed his eyes.  
“Good,” Sherlock murmured appreciatively. “Now lie down.”  
John couldn’t. He was transfixed by the battle in his head. To lie down was to make yourself vulnerable. In his world vulnerability meant death.  
“Lie down, John.” Sherlock repeated. His voice was soft but assertive, almost stern. “Lie. Down.”  
The next thing John knew he could feel Sherlock’s hands on his chest, firmly pushing him down onto the bed. The give of the soft mattress beneath him and the feathery coolness of the sheets should have been heaven for John’s tired body but instead all John could concentrate on was the heat of Sherlock’s hands through the light material of his ratty old t-shirt, the press of Sherlock’s skin against his own.  
John resisted the temptation to open his eyes and instead relished the sensation of Sherlock’s hands on his body. John felt something close to disappointment when Sherlock let go. “Stay there.” He said, “And don’t open your eyes.”  
John did as he was told, the fear-evoking memories kept at bay by newer ones. Ones about being close to Sherlock. How was it that one man could make him feel so much? But then again Sherlock Holmes was not just any man. He was an incredible one. And an incredibly strange one at that.

John could hear him clattering around in the nearby rooms and let himself wonder what he was doing. It sounded like he was looking for something, though what John could only guess.  
John heard the light pad of feet in the corridor and sensed Sherlock re-enter the room. He placed something on the chest of drawers near to where John lay and took something out of his pocket.  
John then heard the unmistakeable sound of a match sizzling into life and then a wonderful scent that mad his whole body relax wafted through the air.  
Scented candles?  
No wonder it had taken Sherlock so long to find them, it wasn’t the kind of thing they usually had in the house. 

John felt the bed sink under Sherlock’s weight as he sat down beside him. John could tell almost exactly how close he was, it was like a newly discovered sixth-sense.  
If John moved even the tiniest amount then he would end up touching Sherlock.  
“You can’t sleep,” guessed Sherlock, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Because you’re troubled by something, right?” Sherlock continued, not needing an answer. He knew he was right. He was always right.  
“I often have that problem myself,” he admitted, “But I find that usually all it takes is a little distraction.” John could feel Sherlock getting closer, leaning in towards him. His heart beat wildly out of control, pounding against his ribcage as though it too wanted to be even closer to Sherlock Holmes.  
John felt Sherlock’s hand slip over the other side of his body and a gust of breath tickled John’s face when Sherlock spoke. “This ought to do the trick.” He whispered.  
Then Sherlock’s lips were on his and the world melted away. Every thought left John’s head. There was only this: the unbearable warmth of Sherlock’s body against his own, Sherlock’s seductively musty scent mingling with that of the scented candles, the taste of Sherlock’s skin on his tongue.  
Nothing else mattered.  
John eased himself upright, pulling Sherlock’s body even closer as he did so, and kissed him back harder. He could feel the soft curls of Sherlock’s hair under his palms, the crinkle of his shirt as he moved. The feeling of Sherlock’s hands on his skin sent shivers down his spine. His whole body ached with longing. No matter how hard he pressed his body against Sherlock’s, it wasn’t close enough. The rest of the world had ceased to exist. Sherlock, as ever, was right. It most definitely did the trick.


End file.
